


His Father's Son

by katiebour



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Gen, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebour/pseuds/katiebour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as accompaniment for my commission from Syber, which I will gladly share when it is finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Father's Son

“There is no such thing as accident; it is fate misnamed.”- Napoleon Bonaparte

***********

He hadn’t meant to do it.

He shivered in the night, the flames licking at the building no match for the cool autumn evening or the fear in the pit of his stomach.

His father was standing over him, angry, fearful, demanding answers, and he had none.

It had started just a few weeks before; he’d been out with the goats, working with his faithful dog to keep the herd together, bringing them home and into the barn that would keep them safe for the night.

His hound had growled, the sound low and dangerous, and out of the darkness of the woods had shone a pair of eyes, bright, predatory, dangerous.   _Wolf._

He’d yelped in fear, raising his crook in threat, but the creature smelled the bluff for what it was, a boy only twelve summers old, skinny and gangly, wavering between fight and flight.

And then, the magic had come, something in him, some connection snapping to life, and then, only then, had the wolf run, the fall of dusk momentarily interrupted by that first bloom of fire.

His mouth had sagged open in shock and fear- what had he  _done_?  He was no mage, no maleficar, no bastion of evil cursed by the Maker- he was just one more Anders boy, his father’s son, and he wanted no part of the power that had poured so strongly from him.

And that night, exhausted, scared, he’d had the first of many terrifying dreams unlike any he’d ever had before.

But the next morning had dawned bright and cheerful, and the goats were waiting to be milked and led to pasture, and his mother had breakfast waiting, and fright and dreams melted away in the light of normalcy.

But he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

If he’d called fire once, maybe he could do it again?  He’d stared overlong at his fingers under the cold water of the pump- had he truly held fire in his hand, or had it simply been a dream, a nightmare, an idle fancy?

And when he was out with the goats, he’d sat on a rock next to the little stream that ran through the hills, and tried.

 _Fire,_  he thought, concentrating.  

It had come to nothing, even an hour’s effort bringing nothing but frustration.

But he’d heard a sudden scream from one of the goats, and his feet were under him and he was running before he was even aware of it.

He found the herd in disarray, running away from the predator loping easily from the field, a young goat in its jaws.

He’d felt helpless then, helpless and angry, and when he looked down, his hands were wreathed, sparking in unworldly fire, blackening the crook in his fingers.

 _Andraste protect me,_  he’d thought, giddy with fear and excitement.

And over the next few weeks, he’d played with the power, learning to  _feel_  that connection, deep within, to call it, with enough practice, to call sparks that became fire that became a spinning ball of flame inches above his palm.  It was mesmerizing, frightening, forbidden, but something in him gloried it, the flame warm against his skin,  _his_  fire,  _his_  power.

And the next time the wolf came, he would be ready.

He’d snuck off to the barn that night to practice, the goats calm and quiet in their stalls, fed, watered, the evening milking finished.

He’d called the fire, spun it in his hand, and wondered, suddenly, if he could shape it-

And so he’d concentrated,  _pulled_ , the ball of flame elongating into a column, wavering back and forth with effort,  _dancing-_

One of the goats had stomped and  _maa_ ‘d, uncomfortable, and he’d lost it- just for a second-

And the fire had slipped from his grasp, lighting the haystack under him.  He’d panicked, stomped on it, but the connection was still open, that place inside him that reacted to fear, and the more he’d stomped, adrenaline spiking, the more the flames had grown.

He’d run, finally, terrified, opening the goats’ pens and the barn and letting them run into the night air.

He’d screamed  _fire_  and his parents, his brother had come running, and they’d tried, they really had, buckets mobilized and the neighbors sent for, but it was too late, and he was so scared-

And when it was clear that nothing would be saved, that it was all lost, the building, the winter feed, the tools and the harnesses, his father had shaken him, voice angry, demanding to know  _what had happened_ , how could he have been so careless- he knew he wasn’t supposed to have a lantern in the barn-

His father raised a hand to strike him, face angry in the light of the burning barn, and as he’d cowered, the power had betrayed him, flames wreathing suddenly up his wrists, around his fingers, called by his terror and sorrow.

 _Blood of Andraste,_  his father had gasped, recoiling from him as if he were poison.   _Maleficar!_

He trembled, so scared, trying to make his mouth form the words- he wasn’t a maleficar, he wasn’t a mage, he wasn’t cursed, he was just himself, and if Father would forgive him, he’d get better, it wouldn’t happen again, he’d be careful-

But the words hadn’t come, and when the blow had lashed out, stunning him, he’d closed his eyes against the tears that leaked from behind closed lids.

And when his father had thrown him into the dark, damp root cellar, screaming at his mother about sending for the Templars, to remove this curse from their house as soon as possible, and it was all her fault, because her brother had been the same, cursed, a sign of the Maker’s hatred and a blight upon their world-

He’d curled up into a little ball on the cold, hard dirt floor, the taste of blood coppery warm in his mouth, fear and exhaustion making his mind run in circles of  _I didn’t mean to do it, I’m sorry I’m sorry, Father, forgive me, I won’t do it again, I didn’t mean to do it, I’m sorry I’m sorry-_

He didn’t want to be a mage, a maleficar, a sin made flesh- he was just another Anders boy, his father’s son. 


End file.
